


when the world was ours

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Character Study, a little bit is about memaw but also about, idk..journeymen? or at least things you can't control, ish, this is the first! non-co92! utd fic! i've ever written!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 12:41:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9491351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: Football isn't always about love and loyalty and your heart on your sleeve. Sometimes it's just about football. And the boys who play.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neyvenger (jjjat3am)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



> I'll explain later but man this was so hard to write!! For Julija: "i DUNNO. Write me Memphis Depay and Luke Shaw falling slowly in love as Luke rehabs his leg, sharing frustration over not being able to play, or not fulfilling the expectations" it GOT A BIT DIFFERENT but idk
> 
> also it might be better if you speak Dutch but I've put the translations in at the bottom so you can always read it again (◕◡◕✿)
> 
>  

 

 

There's a _crunch_ . There's a _crunch_ and it's over.

 

 

*

 

 

"Hey."

Luke opens his eyes. It's blinding white light and a grogginess in his limbs that he can't seem to shake. Memphis is standing above him, his usual shit-eating grin tinged with something Luke can't place. There's a dull throb pulsing just below his right leg like a bad dream that doesn't want to go away. It's then that he remembers.

"Is it - "

Memphis looks down. That's when Luke feels it, _really_ feels it; shattering all over again, but this time his heart and his head and his name read out over the PA system at Old Trafford. It's over. He puts his face into his hands and lets out a low, keening moan, muffled through the pain, trying, failing, to convince himself that he can still run. Over. Memphis holds the railings on the side of the bed and breathes hard. It's the first time since Luke has known him that he doesn't have anything to say.

 

 

*

 

 

"I think you'll like him," says Wayne. "He's an irresponsible little shit, just like you."

They're walking across Carrington to meet the new arrival and Wayne is shaking his head like he hadn't been an irresponsible little shit himself just a few years ago. Luke would have rolled his eyes if Wayne wasn't genuinely trying to be grown-up. As it is Wayne still gives him a suspicious glance, but all that's forgotten as he nods towards Memphis, who's standing awkwardly in reception.

The first thing Luke notices is that he's massive - the word pops into his head and stays stuck there for no reason at all - he's shorter than Luke, but his presence seems to fill the room that they're standing in. Like gorgeous cinematography you couldn't look away from even if you hated the movies. Luke's never been the shy type so he ogles a little at Memphis's thighs, until Memphis catches him staring and he turns red.

"Massive," he repeats under his breath. Wayne looks mortified, but Memphis breaks into a shit-eating grin.

" _Klootzak_ ," he says in return. Luke doesn't speak Dutch, but he thinks what it means is that they'll get along fine.

 

 

*

 

 

He slips in and out of consciousness, but the one thing that never changes is Memphis, always there next to the bed. "Don't you have training?" he asks, once, his voice weaker than he would have liked.

Memphis shrugs.

 

 

*

 

 

"What's Dutch for 'football'?" Luke asks. They're sitting on the field after training; the lads are filing back slowly into the changing room, but it's cold out and Luke likes the way the crisp grass crumbles under his weight.

" _Oranje_ ," Memphis smirks. Luke laughs and leans forward to give him a nudge in the shoulder. "It's _voetbal_. Stop - " his eyes narrow even as Luke opens his mouth, ready to butcher the language again. " - do not even."

"You didn't even know what I was gonna do," Luke protests.

"I always know what you are going to do." Memphis smiles and puts a hand around Luke's neck, burying his fingers in the short, straight hairs. Neither of them shy away. Neither of them have to.

 

 

*

 

 

Luke finds out what _voetbal_ really is the first time they play together. Memphis has the ball and he's running in front of him, like a bull, charging down the left of the pitch. A whirlwind. Sure, it's America, and sure, it's pre-season, but Memphis puts a feeling into his football that Luke has never seen before. For lengths of time all he wants to do is stand there and watch him play - his dancing, dazzling feet, a mirage of brilliance shimmering into form.

There's a fierce pride on his face when he runs, and Luke knows where that's from (Memphis never talks about his father, even when they're alone). That's what _voetbal_ means to him, hearts bursting, lungs melting. Something that can never be taken away. A boy and his ball.  

 

 

*

 

 

It's hard to learn how to walk again when you've been racing through your whole life. Luke lifts himself onto the crutches gingerly, bracing himself for the shooting pain that streaks through his leg. It beats lying in bed for days on end but it's even more cruel, in a way, knowing that he can stand up but can't do anything else.

Memphis comes to his house after training and watches Luke sign letters and photographs that come through the mail. "Let me sign some," he says sometimes, and Luke giggles at his awful attempts to replicate Luke's handwriting.

"Don't you have your own to do?"

"Nah. Not as popular as my man here."

Memphis is lying, obviously, but Luke mirrors his grin anyway. "I like it when you call me your man," he says, unthinking. Memphis's smile widens.

 

 

*

 

 

"You two get along really well," Juan says. Luke gives him a half-smile and shifts uncomfortably. Memphis is sitting on the other side of the dressing room, shirt off. If Juan notices the expression on Luke's face change as his eyes wander across (and of course he does) he doesn't mention it.

"Yeah, I guess."

"It's good." The Spaniard nods at David and Ander, who are fighting over David's awful choice of dressing room music. "It's nice to have people you can always count on."

Luke doesn't say anything. Juan prods gently: "Besides, you're fantastic down the left together."

"You really think so?"

"Yeah."

The thought makes Luke brighten with a funny, fuzzy kind of feeling. "Thanks, Juan,' he says. Something warm and soft settles to the bottom of his stomach. He tries hard to put it in words, but it doesn't come out - just the thought of the blue sky, the red shirts, the brilliance of the football. Because that's what it is, isn't it? Football is flying without wings.

 

 

*

 

 

"Look at the fucking road when you're driving, you twat. You're going to make us crash before we even get to training."

"You were taking a selfie!"

"You don't have to be looking at the camera when you should be looking at the road!"

"They wouldn't be able to see my smile, what's the point?"

" _My_ face, mate."

"Oh. True."

"How do you say 'handsome' in Dutch?"

" _Neuken lelijke_."

"Shut up, that's not it."

"Yes, it is."

"Liar."

"How will I make it up to you?"

"Say 'Luke, you're one good looking fellow'."

" _Luke, ik hou zielsveel van je_."

 

 

*

 

 

And then it happens.

 

 

*

 

 

There isn't a crunch this time. No sound of diamonds snapping, or sudden shocks that jerk your head back in exquisite pain. The doorbell rings on the day of the Palace game and Luke works his way to the door only to blink at Memphis standing outside.

"Do you want me to stand here all day?" Memphis says, dryly.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

Memphis shakes his head as he follows Luke in. "I didn't make the bench."

He hasn't started for the last few games, but Luke would have thought he'd at least be in with a shout for this one. He presses his lips together and doesn't reply. They end up on the sofa, the channel already turned to Sky Sports 1. Luke pushes the cup of tea he'd made over the coffee table and Memphis picks it up without a word.

Wayne leads the team out to _This Is The One_. Luke thinks, for a moment, of the feeling of black socks rolling up to mid-calf, or the smell of the grass all damp under the floodlights. He and Memphis haven't earned chants yet but if he tried he could dream of it.

Matteo and Juan are starting on the left. A right-back and a number 10.

The referee blows his whistle and the game starts, but Luke isn't looking at the TV. Memphis shifts in his seat, his eyes flicking away from the screen. He swallows. Luke reaches for the remote and switches it to the Xbox channel, tossing a controller at Memphis.

"I haven't extended my winning streak in a while," he says.

Memphis reaches out and takes his hand, softly.

 

 

*

 

 

Someone's put a banner up at Carrington saying 'the force is with you, Luke', and he shakes his head as he walks into the room. He's greeted by a chorus of 'look who's back!' which may or may not be an awful attempt at a pun. "Well done, mate," Jesse crows, slapping him on the back.

"Don't hit him too hard," Wayne says. "You might break him again."

"No way, he ain't Jonesy."

"Oi!"

Luke has missed this dressing room banter, being a part of something. Memphis is waiting for him on the other side of the room and he tilts his chin up in greeting, shit-eating grin all over his face. "Told you it wouldn't be that long, my man," he says. Luke punches him in the shoulder and Daley sniggers and everything is the way it should be.

The first time his boots touch the grass, Luke almost cries.

Everything melts away. They're just drills but it's more than that; his knees creak in protest and his weight pressed into his heels as he runs. Everyone seems to feel it and they smile at him as they go by. Luke doesn't really notice. Seven months he's only had FIFA and the long, pale corridors of therapy. Fifteenth September. Fourth April. So this is what it feels like to come home.

 

 

*

 

 

But.

 

 

*

 

 

"I'm ready." He knows it sounds dangerously close to whining but he does it anyway. Van Gaal looks at him like he always does, revealing nothing. "Please, put me on."

"Not yet, Luke." The manager nods at the door.

He's feeling _good_ and he can _play_ and why can't he _play_? Luke bites his lip and marches out of the room, head held high. He doesn't play again for the season. He's too young to be this cynical.

 

 

*

 

 

The new season brings a new manager and new chances. Luke sets out determined to do this whatever the cost, pushing himself harder and further than before. "I'm not losing my place again," he says to Memphis, who runs next to him.

He starts the Bournemouth game and it's good, it's so good - it's phoenixes rising from ashes, it's only Bournemouth but it's so much more than that, it's Juan poking the ball in, twenty five yards of Zlatan. The start is shaky - Luke almost gives away a goal and David yells at him - but then it settles, as all games do. Memphis comes on when everything's almost wrapped up and it's only three minutes but it feels like three years. He smiles. Memphis smiles. Their boots are light and gliding over water. A boy and his ball, and Luke watches like he's going to break.

It's good, it's good, it's good.

 

 

*

 

 

But.

 

 

*

 

 

"I don't understand," Luke says.

Memphis shrugs.

"Me too."

"I'm going to see him." Luke swears under his breath. "I'll tell him. You're such a good player. You have to play."

Memphis laughs and looks at him like that's all he wants to do. "Don't, or you won't get to play either."

They play games and chat shit until it's two a.m. and Memphis has fallen asleep, his head on Luke's shoulder, his hand on Luke's thigh. Luke stays where he is, trembling at the contact. Or perhaps at something else; at wondering if he had a choice between playing and not playing, between Memphis and not Memphis, which he would choose.

 

 

*

 

 

He'd thought that sitting on the sidelines with his leg in a cast would be the hardest thing to do. Turns out it's sitting on the sidelines with your best friend beside you, nothing wrong with his legs at all.

 

 

*

 

 

Memphis snorts when he sees Luke's new twitter header picture. "You're weird," he says. " _Bizar._ "

"You're _bizar_."

"My twitter is normal."

"People keep saying it, so I figured we should make it canon."

"Seriously, though, my man." Memphis takes the advantage of a red traffic light to raise an eyebrow at him. "Why do you think we get on so well?"

It's the same struggle Luke had with MUTV last week. He'd said some crap about being young then, but he still doesn't have an explanation. Jesse and Anthony are young but it isn't quite the same; and he's known them for longer.

"I dunno," he shrugs. "Maybe 'cause we're both idiots."

Memphis laughs at that. "Maybe because we want the same things."

"Maybe." He pauses. "Do you think we hang out too much?"

"Do you think we play football too much?"

Luke blinks. "Well." Now he feels stupid. "No."

Memphis shakes his head. "There is no such thing as too much."

 

 

*

 

 

And maybe that's why - not youth or idiocy or anything but the pure sweetness of understanding. Of the way you can feel the ball perfectly weighted on the pass, like it's customisable, a secret letter only you can read. Knowing someone better than yourself.

 

 

*

 

 

The first time Memphis mentions going somewhere else, Luke isn't listening. He's cooking dinner for the both of them and frowning in concentration as he's slicing the onions. Memphis looks at him, opens his mouth to repeat himself, and then closes it again.

 

 

*

 

 

"Do you really want to?" Luke asks. They're sitting in the Stretford End, looking out at the pitch below them. It's getting late and it's quiet. The groundskeeper only let them in because they'd promised him a win over the weekend.

"Want to what?"

"Want to stay at United forever."

Luke is a boy with a lot of dreams. When he was seven all he ever wanted to do was to kick a ball in the Premier League. Just once. When he was thirteen and Man United were winning the Champions' League on a cold, rainy night in Moscow, he thought of goal-line clearances in must-win games, listening to his name from the stands. When he was nineteen and United came calling, he locked his Chelsea shirts in a drawer and put up posters of Giggs and Scholes and Neville. Pretended that, maybe, he could be one of them, even though he knew it would never happen; was jealous, really, that they had never had to choose between club and football.

Memphis looks down at his hands.

"I want to prove myself," he says.

 

 

*

 

 

Luke is a little surprised that he isn't more upset when Memphis tells him about Lyon. Maybe it's because he always knew it was coming, this day, since even things that aren't bones can break. "You'd kill it," he smiles instead. They're sitting in the car as they always do and he reaches over to give him a hug.

Memphis startles him by putting a hand to his chin and pulling him close. His lips are as soft and warm as he is.

When he lets go, Luke leans back and breathes in deep. His face is probably all pink and Memphis has got that stupid shit-eating grin on his face again. "Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

"You should be." Luke raises an eyebrow. "It wasn't even good."

"Shut up."

"No, really."

They're quiet for a while and only the hum of the suburban traffic outside fills their ears. Finally Luke says, "how do you say 'I love you' in Dutch?"

Memphis keeps smiling, but it's faded, now, farther away. Maybe he's thinking of Lyon. Maybe he's thinking of the left side of the pitch. And all the things they could have been, if only they'd had the chance. He says, " _vaarwel._ "

 

 

*

 

 

This is how he wants them to be remembered:

It's one of those European nights, one of those perfect European nights. The Stretford End is in full voice. They're playing Club Brugge and it's free-flowing football, dazzling, dancing. Memphis is on fire. The way he turns and loses three blue-clad shirts at once, unstoppable, curling right-footers from outside the box that thunder into the goal. Luke races up and down the touchline with him, incisive overlapping runs that the press will sing about tomorrow. They twist and turn and pass like they're telepathic. Beckham and Neville for the new age. Memphis stabs the ball forward and Luke is already in space to collect it, coming to the pass like an architect seeing things slot into place.

Their eyes meet across the field. Memphis nods, once. And then Luke is away, running like he could never stop, would never want to; the ball at his feet, his man behind him, and the seats of Old Trafford rising up to touch the inky black sky.

 

**Author's Note:**

> TRANSLATIONS:  
> Klootzak - asshole  
> Neuken lelijke - fucking ugly  
> Luke, ik hou zielsveel van je - Luke, I love you very much (with my heart and soul appaz???)  
> vaarwel - goodbye
> 
> \- [memphis putting his hand on luke's neck, pls ](http://cdn-04.independent.ie/incoming/article31483519.ece/ALTERNATES/h342/roooo.jpg)  
> \- Memphis always calls Luke 'my man' or ['my boy'](https://68.media.tumblr.com/e4f65001c15528c8b571436716c4522f/tumblr_oa7spthvju1uxju2ho1_500.jpg) and it's so cute!!! (also watch me crying at this)  
> \- David de Gea has awful dressing room music, multiple confirmations, everyone hates him  
> \- I'm so sorry I used a Westlife song but also I'm not really that sorry  
> \- car selfie from when Memphis tweeted the [most heartfelt thing I've ever seen](https://68.media.tumblr.com/17396cfd85ba70e91a424fe47e30b60b/tumblr_nuqqb0CSw41qboouvo1_500.jpg) after Luke's injury  
> \- Palace game - 0-0 draw with Palace, 31 October 2015; Memphis hadn't played the last 3?? games though he'd been on the bench  
> \- Bournemouth game - 3-1 on the opening day of 2016/17 - one of the incred few games Memphis actually got to play in ;--;  
> \- 'People keep saying it' from this fucking ridiculous interview [here](http://www.manutd.com/en/Tour-2015/News-and-Features/2015/Jul/video-luke-shaw-discusses-memphis-depay-friendship.aspx) (there used to be a longer vid but it got taken down cries)  
> \- can u believe luke was THIRTEEN when we won the CL again??? istg  
> \- Club Brugge - 3-1, Memphis got two goals and was fucking unbelievable, and I miss him a lot already  
> \- OK A LOT OF THOUGHTS COMING UP: like I said this is my first non-CO92 Utd fic and I realised it was so hard to write because what always impacts me is loyalty and the love for the club and the game as an extension of it. like that's what I love most about football and I guess you can see that in the people I write about (i.e. Carraville tbh) are so connected to that??? and then you have all these other - not lesser, but different - players who don't have that connection, who aren't lucky enough to be first-teamers all of the time, and it was coming at football from such a totally different angle and I was like whOA. that got rid of a lot of the feelings and language I usually use. so that was hard. but interesting!! it was nice to get out of my comfort zone and also think abt current utd! who are such shits but, yknow, my shits  
> \- i hate injuries and I feel like if luke hadn't broken his leg their partnership would have been So. Good. and memphis wouldn't have left and we wouldn't have had a shite season and things would have been so much better. but oh.  
> \- for one of the cutest scousers I've ever known (and that's saying a lot bc, well, all I know are scousers). Thank you babb for being wonderful <3


End file.
